The sword was red

Stained red

The sword was sharp

A steel-cutter

The sword was hungry

Starved for blood

Awaiting its chance

To seduce a wielder

Waiting to be claimed

Over the centuries

Many stand in line

A long, hundred mile long line

A line with no end

But the sword

The sword will bide its time

Giving its usage only selectively

Influencing minds

Until they are stained red